


Will The Words Be Sad?

by TheOneWithTheObsessions



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 01:26:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOneWithTheObsessions/pseuds/TheOneWithTheObsessions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crimson, Eleven, Delight, Petrichor. What could have been, and what will never be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crimson

**Author's Note:**

> An alternative view on Amy's thoughts during 'The Doctor's Wife'.

The colour of the blood that pours from the gaping bullet – or whatever passes for bullets here - wound on his thigh. Desperate running limp back to the TARDIS, supporting his weight and yours. Stumbling through the doors – ignoring the pull to open sign, unceremoniously slamming them shut just as the next volley of shots impacts at your backs. His distressed laugh followed by scream of agony as you continue to drag him in the vague direction of where the med bay was three (or was it four?) trips ago. Attempting to play doctor (haha _play Doctor!_ ) as you cut the fabric of his trousers to see the wound and apply pressure with some gauze the TARDIS helpfully provided, and ignoring his cries of "those were my best trousers Pond!" and "I feel much better now, leave me to deal with it". He subsides when you glare at him, but that's probably the blood loss going to his head. Eventually, the bleeding stops and he provides roundabout instructions to using the futuristic equipment that heals the hole in his leg and leaves a faint scar above his knee. Once he's patched up he goes…somewhere and leaves the bloodied bandages where they fall, and the parting words of "Come along, Pond!" floating in the silence behind him. He shows up later in new (identical) trousers and no sign of a limp, although you do catch him wincing and leaning against the console, even though he'd never admit his weakness.


	2. Eleven

Is it the eleventh year of waiting yet? The unofficial anniversary of meeting and parting that you endure because you still hope that he'll come back. Once a year on this day you sleep in a tent in the garden (nowhere near the shed) with a packed suitcase and think of what you'll say to your raggedy man when he arrives. The eleventh time you've been disappointed. The eleventh time the fish fingers and custard waiting in your fridge has gone uneaten. The eleventh time Rory's had to come round with extra tissues. Perhaps you think – however briefly, that this is the last time you'll do this, because frankly it has been eleven years, and who can possibly be _this_ late. But then you remember; he promised he'd come back. He fixed the crack in the wall, and held your hand because he knew without you having to say that it was scary, and he promised he'd be five minutes. Maybe five minutes is eleven years inside his box? Maybe it's longer than eleven years. Who knows? All you know is that he is your Raggedy Doctor, and you will keep waiting - for as long as it takes.


	3. Delight

The feeling of being in his arms after so long. The thrill of running away from the mundane life you've built, with the man who took 14 years to return. The way you feel safe with him, even in the middle of a historical warzone. The thrill of running from impossible monsters, saving worlds and afterwards stealing away in the night with your madman and his box. The shiver that runs down your spine when you see him stalk towards an alien and _demand_ they release you, with him looking like there's a storm in his eyes and them frightened of who (or what) could cause such a reaction. The sight of him running around the console, frantically hitting buttons and pulling levers whilst simultaneously clinging to the railings for dear life; and then collapsing into a laughing pile with his proclaiming "Textbook landing!" too loudly into your ear. The simple things, like him taking you to a planet with the best ice cream in the universe, after you complaining that the one thing you couldn't find in the TARDIS freezer was a tub of mint choc chip. (The photo that you have of him with raspberry ripple all over his face, that never fails to make you smile). The knowledge that even if he says "five minutes" and takes 12 years, he will come back for you, and once he does he won't let you go again without a fight.


	4. Petrichor

The planet was sad. Sad, and yet joyous at the same time. It’s one of the hardest experiences you've ever had to put into words, because it is simple and complicated and enchanting and devastating and absolutely perfect all in the same moment. Once every hundred years the rain stops on the surface of the planet-with-the-name-you-cannot-pronounce and the people hold a celebration for the sun that they can see clearly for the first time in their lives and a funeral for the rain they will not see for a century. The day is spent grieving for the loss of the rain and the music it makes on the rooftops and the rhythm it beats on the ground. The afternoon is spent constructing bonfires that will be lit in the evening, and cooking a feast for the entire village. The night is filled with dancing and food and wild celebrations – with the Doctor nearly getting married (or put to death; it was hard to tell), and both of you getting quite drunk on the local wine. The fire is warm, the food is spicy and the people never seem to stop moving, even dancing through the speeches made and the endless parade of toasts made to the clouds. What you'll remember in the morning though isn't the wine, or the wedding or even the tears. It's the scent of forever coming from the warm tweed jacket that the Doctor wrapped around your shoulders when you looked cold. It's the perfume of endless possibilities, the aroma of an infinity of universes that you've yet to see and most of all; it's the smell of the wet dust after a century of rain.


End file.
